I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment.
The later years...
Sherlock will never tell why he suddenly decided to retire from the crime-fighting game at the ripe age of 54, but John thinks it may have something to do with a certain case that ended up with John on life-support for a week and a half.
It had been your bog-standard case of theft: Some idiot underling decided it would be a fantastically simple and amazingly easy way to get a huge wad of cash from their employer if they could get their hands on the company's newest weapons development. Unfortunately, the idiot (also know as Roran Carlisle to his friends and family) hadn't taken into consideration one simple thing: Weapons development meant someone had expressed a desire for something special and unique and were just itching to place an order.
This brought our duo to the Kensington end of Hyde Park on a rare and particularly beautiful night. Clear skies over London let the moon shine fat and full, lighting up even the darkest areas. Unfortunately, even as Sherlock tackled Roran to the ground, John was occupied with The Accomplice – also known as Jimmy Kimpler.
Jimmy, being young and dumb, moved a bit faster than our beloved Army doctor. This unfortunate fact found John tossed to the ground, breathless from impact, and relieved of his weapon. John had just enough time to focus on Jimmy standing over him before the retort of the gun ripped through the night air. John heard his husband's yell and the impact of two bodies as the darkness pulled him under.
Sherlock would never forgive himself for taking those few extra seconds to attempt to question Carlisle, but it seemed he'd fallen unconscious in the fight. Looking up to locate the other thug, he watched as John was tripped up and tossed to the ground. Sherlock was immediately up and running, but wasn't quick enough. He watch in horror as moonlight glinted off of dull metal and was deafened by the sound of gunfire.
Sherlock doesn't remember screaming John's name, but he does remember feeling as if he were flying to take down the one that would have shot John again, just to make sure John was dead. He was moving faster than he'd ever moved in his life, made his second tackle of the evening, and knocked the boy out with one well-placed punch to the jaw.
Sherlock gasped out John's name, begging for a miracle before scuttling over to his husband of almost 17 years. Blood poured from the wound in John's chest, so close to his heart. Sherlock immediately pulled out his mobile and called 999 before dropping the phone to the ground to try to staunch the flow of blood.
He hadn't been frightened in so long, he'd forgotten what it felt like. But looking up to his husband's face and seeing his beautiful blue eyes open and blank, feeling his heartbeat steadily slowing, a calmness washed over him and he knew: If John were lost to him, then it would not be long before Sherlock followed. He was not capable of being without him anymore than he could be without air to breathe.
Mycroft must have been monitoring them again because less than five minutes after the gunshot, three black sedans came tearing through Hyde Park, practically sliding over the dew-slick grass. Men in suits swarmed the area, taking Roran Carlisle and Jimmy Kimpler into the custody of the British Government. Three more rushed to John and Sherlock. Less than two minutes are arrival, the area was clear once more.
The bullet Kimpler fired into John's chest would have killed him had they been forced to wait on the ambulance services. They were just far enough away from main thoroughfares that the delay would have found John dead for at least five minutes. Sadly, his husband would have been found slumped over his body, a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the temple made only seconds prior to the EMTs arrival.
As it was, he was currently on the receiving end of some rather spectacular CPR which kept his heart beating for the time it took to get him to St. Bart's. John was immediately rushed into surgery and the hole in the right ventricle of his heart repaired with no complications. The bullet, however, had lodged itself bare millimeters away from John's spinal column, so this took quite a bit of careful maneuvering to locate, acquire, and remove the offending object.
Sherlock – being Sherlock – requested the bullet be preserved. He would come to wear it on the delicate chain next to John's dog tags, taking it out at night to examine the groves and dents of the little piece of metal that almost took his heart from him.
In the surgery theatre, John's surgeon was just about to finish the procedure when his patient started seizing, reacting very badly to the anesthesia they'd administered. It took thirty minutes of very careful restraint and medication before John could be moved from surgery to recovery.
In the waiting area, Sherlock sat reclined in the unforgiving plastic chairs, legs crossed and eyes closed, holding John's dog tag to his bottom lip. He ignored the drying blood on his clothing and hands, had no need to consider the mud in his shoes, and refused to admit he might be slightly uncomfortable in the cold wetness seeping through his trousers. Instead, he fixed his blue diamond-and-viridian gaze on the doors leading to the surgery theatre and waited.
Luckily, almost everyone on staff knew Sherlock and John and were intimately familiar with the consequences of keeping them apart in dire situations similar to this. So, when the nurse bustling through those doors spotted him immediately, she motioned him forward and led the way to John. The surgeon stopped them outside the room and explained the situation: The amount of damage to John's heart was manageable and he predicted a full recovery. However, John would need to be very careful and take it easy for quite a while before he could even consider going back to work. When he explained the reaction John had had to the drugs he'd been given, Sherlock's knees went a little wobbly.
His John would be reliant on machines to keep him alive until his body was strong enough to do the job it had been built to do.
Sherlock steeled himself and pushed through the door. He was not too proud to deny the whimper that escaped.
The door opened behind him and closed softly and carefully. Mycroft placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and, in a surprising display of gratitude, Sherlock reached up and grasped the hand tightly.
Without a word, Mycroft left, allowing his little brother to cross the room and perch in the chair at the side of John's bed. He remained there for the next 12 days, leaving only long enough to shower and change into the clothes his brother delivered daily.
John was deemed strong enough to be removed from life-support ten days after admission. His first unassisted breath had Sherlock in tears. So, when John woke up in the evening of the twelfth day, it was to a pale and exhausted Sherlock slumped over onto his bed and cradling John's hand under his head. John smiled, stroked what he could feel under his pinkie since it was his only moveable digit at the time, and fell into a deep, natural sleep.
Eighteen hours later, when John woke again, he was greeted with a radiant smile, teary eyes, and a kiss that threatened to stop his healing heart.
John remained in hospital another eight days to ensure no relapse, complications, or other problems his surgeon might have foreseen. He was inundated with friends and well-wishers. Even Harry and Clara made the trip to London to visit.
Four months later, John was given the all-clear and informed he was amazingly healthy for a man of his age. He attributed his good health to a steady diet of running after and managing his husband. (Sherlock hmpf'd good-naturedly but loved the warm glow he felt in himself knowing how true John's statement was.)
Two months after that, a near miss with a huge amount of explosives made up Sherlock's rather impressive mind: It was time to retire from The Game.
When he told John his decision, he feared his spouse was having a heart attack and shouted at John for scaring him ("What the hell am I supposed to think, John, when you go pale, grab your chest, and have to sit down before you fall over?!") Afterward, when he posed his conclusions, John agrees it would be fantastic and the matter is settled: Sherlock Holmes has retired.
Within the year, the couple have purchased a small cottage right outside of a village in Essex where Sherlock can raise his bees. John, ever the doctor, has opened a small practice he runs from a clinic about half a mile from their home. He quickly becomes he favorite of everyone in town with his treatment of patients. Not to mention his husband always has plenty of fresh honey and honeycomb for anyone interested!
John and Sherlock had been retired for fifteen years before Mycroft passed away. Sherlock was devastated in the way only he could be. Silence reigned at home for close to a full week as he grieved. John stood beside him during the funeral and made sure his husband ate, drank, and slept as need be. Two weeks after the funeral, Sherlock walked in from his hives, grabbed up his mobile and said simply, "Greg." Thank god John spoke 'Sherlock'.
Greg spent his remaining time in another cottage a few hundred yards from John and Sherlock's home, but followed his husband of over 35 years less than six months after the funeral. Neither John nor Sherlock grieved for long, knowing both men would be happy now, wherever they were.
In the summer of their own 35th anniversary, 20 years after he retired, Sherlock got sick. After all the years of drug abuse, his own heart had started to fail. Neither man was ready to be without the other for any period, but both John and Sherlock were wise men. They'd lived full and happy lives, running and chasing and helping to their heart's content. Because of their history, their own stories that had made them so famous, because of everything they'd accomplished, Sherlock refused to die in a hospital. As a matter of fact, he surpassed every medical expectation and lived (quite actively and very healthily) far longer than the eight months they'd forecast.
Instead, John and Sherlock celebrated their 38th wedding anniversary, Sherlock's 71st birthday, John's 76th birthday, and even the birth of Molly Hooper's first great-grandchild.
Frost covered the ground early that year and John was feeling it in his bones more than ever. Especially in his shoulder where the scar tissue left over from his time as a soldier had taken hold.
John banked the fire in the living room and turned off the lights as he retired to bed for the evening. In a move he'd almost forgotten, John stopped in the doorway of their bedroom and leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest. There, in the bed and illuminated by lamplight, Sherlock leaned against the headboard, reading the latest articles published in the science journals he so loved.
The years had been kind to his husband. The only wrinkles adorning his face were those placed there by laughter or scowls, so the crows feet and lines across his forehead only leaned to distinguish their host. Black curls had given way to solid white, now pulled back in a queue at the nape of his neck. (Sherlock refused to admit he liked it because it made him look a bit like a pirate, but John knew better.) Those gorgeously unique eyes had not faded one whit, but the glasses Sherlock kept perched on his nose turned John on to this very day. (Sexy, scholar-pirate, John thought, and grinned.)
"If you continue lurking in the doorway, I may be forced to throw something at you." Sherlock peered over the rims of his reading glasses at his husband, and smiled at him. The years had been just as kind to his John, silvering his still-short blond hair, adding more wrinkles to his face, and weight to his middle.
"It hits me sometimes, out of the blue, how beautiful you are and how lucky I am to have been able to have you for so long." John's soft tenor struck a chord in Sherlock's chest, causing a flush to rise in pale cheeks. John laughed at his reaction, but straightened and made his way to bed, stripping his clothing as he approached. "what are you doing in bed so early anyway? It's just gone 8 o'clock."
The man still made Sherlock's mouth water, even after all these years. He cleared his throat before continuing but let his gaze wander over his husband. "Just tired. It's been a long few weeks and I think it's catching up with me."
Concerned, John dropped his shirt and climbed into bed before turning to Sherlock and placing a palm on his cheek. "You okay?"
Sherlock smiled and placed a kiss to John's palm. "Of course. I'd tell you otherwise."
John outright laughed at him. "No, you wouldn't, but I appreciate the sentiment."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and grinned as he scoffed. "Sentiment."
The pair rolled into the other's arms, each settling into a warm and comfortable embrace made just for them: Sherlock curled into John's side, head resting on non-wounded shoulder and arm across John's middle. John lay on his back with one arm holding around Sherlock's shoulders while the other held the hand across his stomach.
At 2:35 am, Sherlock Holmes slept through a slight arrhythmia lasting approximately 15 minutes. He slept through the harder thud that followed soon after, but flinched and grasped at John's hand reflexively. He felt no pain, no fear, no alarm, when his beleaguered heart finally stopped at 3:04 am.
John, obviously sensing something amiss with his mate, pulled Sherlock closer and stroked his hand up and down his love's back. Unwilling to leave the other, even unconsciously, John pressed a kiss to white hair, breathed deep and sighed in his sleep. John Watson passed away, 15 minutes later, at 3:19 am.
Sherlock reached down to where John lay in the grass and, grasping his love's hand, pulled him upright.
"Okay. That's new. Sherlock?"
"Yes, John?"
"Where are we?"
"Taking into consideration we were both old men not a few hours ago and are now as young as when we first met?"
"Yes."
"Dead."
"Oh." John ran a now-younger hand through blond-again hair.
"Mmm-hmm."
"Right. Well, um... Huh."
Sherlock laughed at his obvious shock. "Come along, John. I'm sure we'll find something to get into." With that, he grabbed John's hand again and began walking, dragging his John along.
"Sherlock, I swear, if you get us kicked out of Heaven, Valhalla, Eden, the Elysian Fields, whatever-its-called, I'll never speak to you again."
"Pfft! As if I would, John. Really! I was thinking more along the lines of going back, trying life again."
"Already? We just got here!"
"Bored."
John growled at his husband. "If we weren't already dead, I'd kill you."
Thank you to everyone that alerted, favorited, and reviewed this sequel to 'Smile'. I had originally planned on several chapters, but didn't want to ruin. Hopefully, this ending will suffice.
*Love*
Vala
